Gwen POV:
I don't know how he does it.
Peter was released from the hospital yesterday and today? He's hunched over a notebook, scribbling equations like he's cramming for finals. He's got bruises, casts and stitches and still, he looks like his brain's running a marathon without him.
I want to help him. God, I need to help. But how? Every time I see him bury himself in formulas, muttering about tissue stability and alloy densities as if those were breakfast options in a diner, my chest aches.
What do you do when your best friend is determined to drown in work, trying to figure out something the world is still struggling with instead of resting? You drag him out.
So I did.
Peter POV:
The regen serum calculations flowed smooth. Cell regeneration needed a catalyst. Stable, self-sustaining. No mutations, no freak accidents. Curt Connors went halfway there in the movies — but if I could iron out the flaws—
My train of thought derailed when Gwen snatched my notepad. She had sneakily entered through my open window.
"Hey!" I protested.
"Wheelchair. Now." She pointed towards the wheelchair like a general giving orders.
"I can't exactly walk—"
"Which is why I'm the chauffeur. Don't make me throw you over my shoulder."
"You would, too. Plus it's kind of embarrassing to crawl towards an oversized baby stroller in front of you." I quipped.
"Correct. Now move."
" Geez, give me a second. Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed." I muttered as I crawled towards my wheelchair with Gwen's help. And that's how I ended up being rolled down Queens Boulevard by a punk drummer girl in a hoodie and ripped jeans, while I tried not to die of embarrassment. As my clothing was a blue Polo shirt and baggy Bermuda pants exposing my legs that were in thick casts.
Gwen POV — Band Practice
Dragging Peter into band practice wasn't exactly subtle. The guys blinked at me like I'd wheeled in a corpse.
"This is Peter." I snapped. "He's sitting in. Problem?"
No one spoke. Good answer.
" I thought you quit band." Asks Peter with a raised eyebrow. " Got into another one. My skills are pretty rad." I boast, earning me eye rolls from the members and a snort from Peter.
I lost myself in the rhythm — pounding drums, crashing cymbals, fast, loud, alive. Every beat was an outlet. Anger, fear, love, grief — it all bled out through my sticks.
Between songs, I glanced at Peter. He was scribbling again but his fingers tapped in time with the music. Nerd thought he was hiding it.
After practice, I smirked. "So? Impressed?"
"You missed a beat in the bridge." He deadpanned.
"Excuse me?!"
"Joking! You were… amazing." He smiled and for a second, he looked like the Peter from before all the chaos.
Peter POV — Shawarma Stop
" Shawarma. With extra garlic sauce." Orders Gwen.
"This stuff could kill Dracula." I muttered as Gwen shoved a pita in my hand.
"Eat it. Doctor's orders." Said Gwen sternly.
"I thought you were a drummer, not a doctor." I chirped back.
"Multi-talented." Says Gwen with a mouth full of food.
I took a bite and holy hell, it was good. "...Okay. You win."
"Say it louder." Demands Gwen.
"YOU WIN!!!" I say loud enough to turn heads.
"Music to my ears." Says Gwen while ignoring the stares. " Buzzkill." I say with a huff.
She grinned, sauce on her cheek and I had to stop myself from laughing. Not because it was funny, but because for once, she looked carefree.
Gwen POV — Skate Park
Queens skate park at twilight. Half-pipes glowing under streetlights. Kids blasting music from boom boxes. My world, my escape. " Ever heard of the word 'Serenity'? Because if this is relaxing I need to get you some help." Says Peter with a teasing smirk.
"Think you can keep up, Parker?" I teased.
"I'm in a wheelchair, Gwen." Deadpans Peter.
"Excuses. Race me."
And we did. I zipped down ramps and spun on rails while I pushed my board harder than I thought I could. I laughed so loud I swear people turned to stare.
When I skidded to a stop, breathing heavy, I rolled up beside Peter who was following me while trying to not hinder people. When people see spiked hair and leather jackets they think we're anarchists and drugged out bums. But we're just people with a little different sense of style. And Peter? God bless his soul was just nice and everyone was nice to him as well, hoping that he would make a quick recovery.
"You looked like you were flying." I said.
"Flying's your department, Spider-Dork." Quips back Peter and I burst out laughing.
The jovial moment stretched for god knows how long and then Peter gave me a look. "Speaking of… how do you do it?"
"Do what?" I ask as we were on the busy sidewalks of New York.
"Swing around this city in spandex, picking fights with psychos carrying knives, guns, bombs and the occasional laser with nothing but your fists and a mask. No armor. No backup, just puns and witty one liners."
My smirk faltered. For a second, I just stared at the pavement.
"I don't think about it." I admitted quietly. "If I did, I'd never leave my room."
"That's not bravery, Gwen. That's suicide." Admonished Peter.
My anger bristled. "Says the guy who tried to turn himself into Godzilla."
"…Fair point." Admits Peter.
We both laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just shared fear we didn't want to admit.
Gwen POV — The Chip
Later, when he leaned forward to grab his notes, the collar of his polo shirt shifted.
That's when I saw it.
A small metallic plate, digging on the skin of his neck. Subtle, almost invisible. But definitely not natural.
"Peter…" I whispered. "What is that?"
He froze. Slowly pulled his collar up again.
"A Cerebral AI interface chip." He said finally. "Experimental. Helps me calculate faster. Think faster and access info from the internet directly.
My stomach dropped. "You implanted experimental tech into your body?!"
"It was… necessary." Replied Peter.
"No, Peter, it wasn't. You're already smarter than half the planet! Why would you—"
"Because sometimes being smart isn't enough!!!" He snapped, then sighed. "It's not dangerous. Clanker keeps it stable. It's just… a tool."
But I wasn't convinced. Tools don't glow faintly under the skin. Tools don't hum like a living thing.
I bit back my panic, forcing a smirk. "One of these days, you're gonna fry your brain and blame me for not stopping you."
He smirked back. "At least I'll go out stylish."
We both laughed, but underneath, my hands trembled.
Because for the first time, I realized — Peter Parker wasn't just broken.
He was changing.
And I didn't know if I could keep up. As Spider-woman or Gwen.
Read ahead on P.A.T.R.E.O.N
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